


Missed Memories and Details

by EucalyptusKisses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Everybody Dies, Explosions, Hurt No Comfort, John Feels, M/M, Moriarty Is A Dick, Moriarty is Alive, Moriarty was REAL, OTP Feels, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, Post The Great Game, References to Moriarty, Sherlock Feels, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock-centric, Swimming Pools, The Great Game Spoilers, What Have I Done, What-If, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1582793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EucalyptusKisses/pseuds/EucalyptusKisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out that it is a perfectly acceptable day to die. An alternate ending to "The Great Game", in which Irene Adler does not change Moriarty's mind. A oneshot told from Sherlock's point of view. </p>
<p>There's a bit of Johnlock if you put on your goggles and squint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missed Memories and Details

**Author's Note:**

> Another story from my account on fanfiction.net

It was iridescent, wherever they were. They weren’t next to the pool anymore, that was for damn sure. They weren’t back at the flat, nor were they at any of their more frequented haunts. For now, they seemed to be simply existing. Not quite alive, not quite dead. Why? That was the question. There had to be a reason why they were stuck in this void. 

 

He tried to quiet his mind to some avail. His head was always so _noisy_. Sometimes it still surprised him he could cope, that he hadn’t gone into a state of self-induced insanity. He thought back with rapid speed over the events of the past few days. There had been a bomber. A woman had died. He’d gone for hours, days, without sleeping. Without eating. He’d solved the five puzzles sent for him by said bomber, said mastermind. They met at a pool at his own request, to speak face to face. And then what?

 

He turned his head. There was his flatmate. The second man’s face was painted with calm determination, placid compliance, grim acceptance. Their knuckles brushed. _“Think,”_ the soldier encouraged distantly, like he was slipping away. _“Remember what happened. What you did.”_ His lips twitched into a quick half-smile.

 

_Think!_ he ordered himself. He remembered entering, standing next to the pool, drawing out a gun and pointing it at the man who valued being able to own secrecy. He remembered having a little chat, intellectual banter, his soldier hanging onto the villain and telling him to _“Run!”_ while dressed in explosives. 

 

Oh.

 

_Oh._

 

The gun. The bombs. He had gotten a look from his blogger, a nod that said he could kill the three of them--the villain, the soldier, the detective--because that was their only option. So that meant he had . . . killed them. He had killed a madman and his best friend. And on top of that, himself. God, the criminals of his city were going to throw a party when they heard. They’d be unstoppable if they were clever enough.

 

_“There you go,”_ breathed the soldier. He was practically fading. “ _I knew you’d get it, before the end.”_

 

“The end?”

 

_“You’re dying. I knew you’d solve how before actually dying.”_

 

A pause.

 

“You wanted me to live.”

 

_“I did. I do. Tried to save you a split second before you fired. Covered your body with mine as we both fell out of the way in a desperate attempt to save your life.”_

 

“You already had, long before tonight.”

 

_“At least that’s something.”_ A small, strained chuckle was made. 

 

“Are you dead?”

 

_“Do you really have to ask?”_

 

A nod.

 

_“We landed mostly in the pool when I tried to knock you out of the way. You’re processing all this in your head, as you float in shock with a wound speckled body, gasping and dying. I’m already gone. No hope of me ever being brought back to life.”_

 

“No point in me living, then.”

 

_“Then relax. Breathe. Let go. Calm down. You’ll come to in a mo’, and then you can decide what you truly want.”_

 

He did as his soldier, doctor, blogger, flatmate, friend, said. He let go.

 

He opened his eyes blearily and paddled weakly to the surface with so much effort and force it physically ached. He could feel himself dying, feel his pulse slowing. It was demoralizing, dispiriting, though he would never admit it. He reached out and blindly grasped for his friend, pulled him closer. He entwined their hands, looked out at the curling tendrils of smoke emitted from various little fires, at the building still falling apart, parts of it falling onto earth, concrete, or the pool. He could vaguely make out noises; sirens, maybe, coming too late to rescue them. Or maybe it was just his soft, gurgling breath. 

 

He looked up one last time, fixated on a star. He squeezed the hand curled under his own. He collapsed back into water, his gaze going slack.


End file.
